Side Effects
by Anna10
Summary: A series of sometimes-post-eps, from select episodes. Told from Carter's POV, involving, well, Carter, and potentially anyone else he interacts with in a given episode. Generally angsty, occasionally just happy. 5.(No Good Deed Goes Unpunished)
1. Something Different

Spoilers: Well, post ep for Tell Me Where it Hurts, so there are spoilers in there somewhere. Nothing beyond that though.

Disclaimer: Not mine, yadda, yadda, yadda, just having a little fun with 'em. I put them back, all clean. Except for Carter. That chocolate sauce came outta nowhere….

Gushing unlimited amounts of gratitude: To Charli, my ever faithful and illiterate (where's the 'e'??) beta, for making my fic roadworthy, and to It's Always Something, for being generally great and inspirational. Well. A little inspirational. And for letting me borrow Carter and his inner thoughts. You can definitely have him back. Once he got going, he just wouldn't shut up…

~ * ~ * ~

The street lamp casts a flickering, yellowy glow across the pavement, which my eye focuses upon for a moment. It's strange how such a simple thing can be so mesmerising. Perhaps I just want to be mesmerised to avoid concentrating on what is more prominent in my thoughts, the hand that's wrapped little fingers round my stomach, and has been pulling at it all day. Tired footsteps trail past the lamp, shadows diminishing the glow for a second, until they move on, intent upon finishing their mission.

It's the loud cry of the car horn that finally shakes me back into reality; I realise I'm in the middle of the road, and I've wandered past my destination clumsily, too wrapped up in feelings of guilt, of sympathy, and overwhelmingly of something different, an emotion I can't quite place, because I've never really felt it before. 

Holding up my hand in apology to the angry driver, who merely dismisses me and continues past, I reach the other side of the street and trail back up it; her devastated, terrified face playing in my mind like a scene in a movie. A glance at my watch tells me I've been too long already, and I quicken my steps.

The entrance to the restaurant is welcoming, upon seeing the hazy orange lights the windows emit, and the happy laughter seeming to endlessly brim from it, the warmth apparent from three buildings down. The heat hits my face first, then rushes through my fingers, as if trying to melt the frost that had been enveloping them since I left the hospital.

The door relents easily under my force, and swings inward to release more laughter, a homely smell of crackling fat, and interested faces, surveying me. I feel as though I should smile, and I try hard to do so, but fail to even convince myself, and firmly tread over to the counter, having to shout out an order to be heard.

"Hey!" It takes a few moments before I realise the greeting was aimed at me, and I turn to face a short, stout man, with a thick moustache and little hair. He's grinning broadly. 

"You're that doctor, right?" 

I nod automatically; scanning my brain for an indication I've seen him before. 

He tries his best to help me, "Sammy – with the finger? I saw you Tuesday…" he continues, holding up a bandaged stump attached to a blackened hand, slightly more proudly than he should do.

"Yeah, Sammy," I smile, but apparently not convincingly enough, because he looks disappointed that I don't remember, and slopes back to his seat. 

A bored looking waitress on counter detail stoically chews her gum, before shoving a package my way, and telling me the price, tapping perfectly honed talons along the desk. Pushing a note across to her, and telling her to keep the change, I head back to the door, pausing to catch Sammy's eye.

"Stuck in the printing machine?" I ask more chirpily, pointing to his finger.

He grins again. "Yeah. Thanks, for saving my hand," he adds. "They only had to cut one finger off after all."

"You're welcome," I nod a couple of times, smiling back. "Sammy," I repeat under my breath, bracing myself as the coldness returns to my aching limbs. And for a moment, I remember how good it feels to be able to help someone.

The way home was slightly more optimistic, but punctuated with action replays of my day, conversations I should have had differently. The further I walk, the more my head gives way to the negative feelings eating at it. I remember Eric blabbering his way through the ER, talking about everything and anything, and wonder what I could have done. 

Anything. 

Nothing? 

I'm not sure, I just know that today has changed things, made everything unsure, and as guilty as it makes me feel, I can't help but wish Eric had just been normal. For Abby, the dutiful sister.  For John and Abby the couple.

It's hard for me to even try and imagine what Eric's going through, what Abby's going through, but as far as I push the self pity to the back of my mind, it eats back at me, telling me it'll affect me too, telling me that this is where we both fall. 

At the second hurdle. 

I dismissed her fears as paranoia and I watched helplessly as he was arrested.  So I'm not quite sure what makes me think I can help anymore now. I seem to be failing her, no matter how hard I try, because I don't want to fix her or change her, but just need to be near her. 

To make her better. 

Because that's all I really know how to do. 

The masochistic part of me needs, wants to try. Because…because it's Abby.

I look up from the dark pavement, and across the street. There's a couple in front of me, weaving their way along the pavement together, perfectly in sync. Her fingers muddle with his as she giggles, him stopping to nuzzle her ear. I smile half heartedly, the scene triggering a better memory of last week.

********

_"Fishsticks."_

_"Lasagne."_

_We spoke instantaneously, and she giggled slightly, but recovered quickly to roll her eyes and look at the jar, then to me quizzically. "Lasagne?" she asked playfully, raising an eyebrow, challenging me to respond. She had the upper hand already; she knows I find her irresistible when she's mad._

_"Fishsticks?" I countered indignantly, holding her gaze and defiantly keeping hold of the ready-made sauce in my hand._

_"I like 'em."_

_"I don't."_

_"They're easy to cook."_

_"Are fishsticks even classed as food?"_

_"They're a food group of their own," she smirked defensively, and took a pack from the shelf in front of her. Behind us, a small woman tapped her foot impatiently; breaking the deadlock and making us step to the side to allow her through, shooting her an apologetic glance. On her way past she noted the packet of fishsticks, and pulled a slightly disgusted face, before continuing forwards with her cart._

_"Stop smirking, John," she warned before even looking up. My grin spread across my face now, before giving way to a mock serious expression._

_"I'm sure to some people they are a whole food group, Abby," I teased her, before dropping the sauce into our cart victoriously. I like it when I win._

_"You're not coming grocery shopping with me again," she muttered under her breath and slowly pushing forwards. "And we're not having lasagne," she added, reaching for the jar. My hand stopped hers, and I swept my fingers through her own, interlacing them. Aware that I was trying to distract her, she moved to pull away, but my thumb firmly ran along the inside of her palm and she gave in to this persistence, attempting to ignore the happy glow that was threatening to radiate across her face. I caught it though, and she knew that._

_"I wasn't going to make just fishsticks," she tried to reason slightly poutily. "I was going to do potatoes, vegetables, yam…"_

_"With fishsticks?"_

_She attempted to keep her mouth locked into a frown, but with every inch I felt my smile grow, her own began to mirror it, and she laughed, squeezing my hand. "What is your problem with fishsticks?"_

_"Haven't got one."_

_"You obviously have," she persisted, shooting her eyes across to meet my own._

_I chuckled slightly, gently shaking my head, and glanced across the store, searching, whilst Abby seemed lost in her thoughts and a silly little grin. "What?" I whispered, making her aware that she'd been grinning stupidly. _

_"Nothing." She tilted her head up to me all too innocently, and I watched her warily, this was a common trick she used to win our arguments, and I usually caved. She raised her free hand to just below my chin and tilted it, allowing her to reach up and brush a soft kiss against my mouth, which still tingled every time she did this. I smiled, and returned to scanning the shelves of the store. I found what I was searching for, and my grip on her hand intensified a little as I dragged her across to the opposite aisle, pleased with myself. "You can have garlic bread with lasagne," I smiled, tossing it into the cart, along with an accompanying packet of pasta sheets. _

_"You don't give up, do you?" she marvelled._

_"Not when I know I can win."_

************

We shared these little 'moments' in public, but by mutual consent decided to keep public making out to a minimum. Making out is for teenagers. Funny how I feel like one when she's around. The sudden deep breath I inhale lets me know I've reached home before my eyes do. 

Home? 

Abby's apartment. She seems less worried about keeping it hers anymore. I have a drawer, a coffee mug and a side of the bed, and she's never said she likes it that way, but I know that she does. She's easier to read than she likes to think.

Two steps become twelve, and I reach the outside door quickly, balancing the still warm bag in one hand whilst turning open the door with the other, hoping she's ok. 

Hoping she still needs me.

My heart breaks silently with the scene that greets me when I enter, gently closing the door. She's curled on the couch, staring into space, but a little sign of relief crosses her face as she sees me. Relief and maybe a smile. She matter-of-factly tells me she hasn't reached him. The selfish thoughts that have plagued me since the fish shop evaporate, and my heart sinks another notch for her. 

"Might have to wait until morning," I offer, brandishing the bag from Brennan's and continuing into the kitchen. I try not to noticeably pause upon seeing the bottle, but maybe I'm easier to read than I think, because she is quickly on her feet, moving towards me and issuing a hurried explanation, her face pained. 

The wine doesn't matter, but she continues guiltily, explaining her struggle and forcefully clamping the cork back into the open bottle, until I take it from her and pull her towards me gently, arms forming a protective wall around her, trying desperately to close the demons out. Though I might sometimes say the wrong thing, and I might fail in so many other ways, I know I can do **this** right; I can love her.

She sniffles against my chest a little; nose buried there, and slides her arms around my torso, trying to fit like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. 

A jigsaw that has taken too long to make just to give up. 

"I'm so glad you're home." Home. That word again. People have talked to me about their homes since before first grade, but I don't think I've ever had one to know what it was. Now my heart's letting me think that maybe I do. For a fraction of a second, my hand stops running along her back, but I resume, and I feel us jumping that elusive second hurdle.

"I'm sorry.  I wanted you to be wrong. For both of you." She's very still for a moment, and I worry I've said the wrong thing, but she squeezes a little tighter, and releases me gently, kissing a favourable part of my chest and cursing her family. I know how she feels and I tell her so, planning a hypothetical family gathering out loud which makes her laugh a little. A reassuring laugh.

The conversation moves to the table, but I reach gently for her back again, resuming the rubbing. She pours herself an opening, floodgates releasing more tears, and heart releasing more than I think she's released for a long time. And in a weird sort of way I'm happy. It hurts me that she's in pain, but I'm so happy it's me, glad that she trusts me enough to tell me all this. Her eyes avert themselves from mine, but I keep a steady but comfortable gaze, allowing her to feel me there. I will her to look at me, to believe I'm here to stay, knowing she'll get there eventually, but not tonight. I will her to see what I want to tell her, but can't put into coherent sentences.

"He was the only one I could count on."

Sensing my chance, I lean forward, eyes eager and alive. Sincere. "That's not true anymore." My heart pounds a little faster when she doesn't respond immediately, panicking that I've moved a step farther than I was meant to. But I don't want to take it back. _Come on Abby. Look at me._

She raises tired brown pools up to meet mine. 

"Promise." 

_Always. _

She looks so vulnerable chewing on her fingertips, more than I've seen her, and I know she's afraid to hear this, but as scared as she is, she needs to. I need her to. So I tell her.

"I'm not going anywhere."

She stares back for a few moments, allowing this information to sink in, the slightest hint of a smile flickering upon weary lips, and then almost dives at me, catching my mouth in a kiss I wouldn't believe was there if my hands weren't cupping her face. It's barely there, but I feel it, and I guide her onto her feet, pulling her into my lap gently, where I place a reciprocal kiss on her nose, which she scrunches in response.

"Thank you," she whispers, voice breaking, and nestling her head back into the crook of my neck. I think if it wouldn't be such an inconvenience, I'd be glad to house her head there for the rest of our lives, but my thoughts give way to the warm sticky tears pooling on my sweater, and I kiss along her shoulder, drawing her nearer to me.

"Don't thank me," I whisper, punctuating my words with another kiss, hand running along her hair, loosening it so it falls down to her shoulders. It looks prettiest that way. "You have nothing to thank." Her face finally rises from my neck, dropping a final kiss on it in the process. She looks confused, and I trace the side of her face idly, brushing back the locks of hair concealing the world-weary face I know so intimately, trying to reword what I feel so keenly in my heart. 

"You're not a burden," I whisper to her furrowing brow. "You're a gift."

Her smile is the first genuine smile of the day, I think, and she seems to want to believe me, although I know she doesn't. It doesn't matter. I have the rest of my life to convince her I mean it. Eternity's a long enough time. I chuckle inwardly, making a mental note to stop making myself cringe. 

She bites her lip, bringing me back to reality, gaze flicking back to the wine glass. A gentle finger reaches out from my hand, tilting her head back to face me pointedly. She nods in understanding. 

"I know why I didn't drink it," she finally mouths, looking pensive. I look to her to continue, and she falters, but takes a deep breath. 

"It doesn't make me feel right. You make me feel right now."

Unable to do anything but smile, I gently lift her from my knee, stroking her hair once more. 

"Tired?" I ask, somewhat hopefully, because I don't know whether I can even sit anymore without my eyelids flickering closed, and she nods in response, taking my hand, and returning to my arms, cradled between soft hands and a warm chest. Now I definitely think she should stay there. 

"Thank you," she whispers again, a small sob weeping out onto my chest. 

I sigh, pulling her the final distance, until there is no space between us, bodies interlinking. If it were up to me, I'd scour the floor for the seven pieces of her broken heart, and slot them back together with glue, but all I can do for the moment is damage control, and it's frustrating; but upon seeing how vulnerable she is in this moment, and how much trust she is bestowing on me, I begin to realise that the tiny footsteps forward, the slow dance between us we're learning to perfect, the gradual crumbling of long established walls; they're all worth it.

I realise this is love, and I smile into her shoulder a little.

I should berate myself, considering the circumstances surrounding this realisation, but she's here, clinging to me for fear of letting go, and she's letting me help her, hold her, she might even bury into me if she could, and this is so ultimately overwhelming, that I just have to smile.

Her arms tighten round me in a death grip, but I forget to choke, instead enveloping her further, my left hand running through tangled hair, and lips forming a gentle kiss on the shoulder of a tear stained sweater. And it's amazing how fulfilled I feel doing this, how in awe I am that I'm finally allowed to 'help' her, to be everything I've wanted to be since a time I can't even remember. 

Yeah. This is something different.

~ * ~ * ~

Authors Note: So, I've never tried a post ep before, and I thought it'd be a good idea, but this'll be my first (and last!) because it's a lot harder than I thought! Hope you liked it, if you did, review, it'll make me happy for the day. And you'll go to heaven. If you didn't, review, I'd like to hear all the same. Constructive criticism very much loved…


	2. Things I'll Never Say

Disclaimer: _See last part, if you are in any doubt as to whether or not I own the fictional characters created by TPTB. _;o)__

Spoilers: _For Next of Kin._

Author's Note: _Ok, so I swore I would never do another of these, and at the time, I really meant it, but Next of Kin inspired me, then It's Always Something (aka Kenzie Gal) and Charli (aka soulofanangel – why can't these people stick to one name each?) sort of coerced me into doing another one. So if you don't like it, it's their (collective) faults._

_This isn't going to be a Carter post ep for every episode thing, I'll leave that to the professionals, like Kenzie Gal, who do it so well, but when the mood hits me, I'll write another one. Umm, read and enjoy? _:o)__

Fawning Gratitude and Kisses to: _Charli and IAS, aforementioned, for beta-ing and being generally grand, and to Brookestar, MeganStar, sam baker, CARBYfan, mealz and poby, for reviewing, thank you all, I'm very grateful.  _

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"Cancel Christmas!" she punctuates this by forcefully stamping out the remaining stub of her cigarette, the only remnants a thin line of smoke rising up into the crisp night air. 

The smell that reaches my nostrils sends me a sudden urge to smoke one, but I realise she's taken the box with her. Following her might be the sensible thing to do, but my feet don't want to move, and instead I watch the couple walk past me, pram clattering along with them, no doubt housing an obscenely beautiful baby inside, oblivious to the big wide world waiting for it. 

I wait for her slamming of the outer door, bracing myself, but it never comes, the only sounds that echo through the night are the faint rattling of an incoming el train, and fading footsteps. 

And maybe the sound of the cogs turning in my mind.

Oh, I'll cancel Christmas. If that's what she wants, I'll cancel it, I'll cancel the small tree I have on pre-order, I'll take the gift I happily chose out a month ago back too, the one I coerced Susan into showing me how to wrap. We can have a nice non-Christmas, with the spirit of non-joy and non-cheer.

I had better hopes for this December.

Gazing out into the Chicago blackness I've come to almost love, I make myself a mental list of things to do; meet Gamma for lunch tomorrow, buy new light bulbs for my living room, remember Abby isn't broken and doesn't need fixing, doesn't need my interference. Be supportive because I love her, whilst simultaneously wanting to scream that I want to be part of her, and this ritual retracting into herself doesn't help my quest. Scold myself for being so selfish at a time like this.

In this moment, I could cry. I know she doesn't realise she's doing this, realise how many arrows she's shot through my heart in the past few weeks, because they're unintentional wounds. I know this, but it hurts like hell.

Part of me wants to grab her, to shout. Poor Abby! Poor, poor you. Yes you have a bipolar mother, a bi polar brother, and they're being shitty to you. But I'm not. I'm trying so hard to love you, I do love you, but you don't even see it. Or want to, I think. Just look through me, forget about me, and keep shutting me out, in case this gets too difficult, too real. In case it goes wrong, and you get hurt. 

All things I'll never say.

A larger part of me feels like crap for thinking these thoughts, for being mad at her whilst she's going through something so huge. But I'm still waiting for her to tell me that this, her and me, is doing her some good. That she's here because she wants to be. She tells me she is, in so many small ways, when she absentmindedly buys full fat milk because I like it, when she snuggles into me instinctively when she's cold, but I need to hear it, I need to be told, because no-one's ever told me they need me. Not like that.

I want them to. 

I want **her** to.

Is that so wrong?

To want to be put first, before her mother and the brother, however unfair and inappropriate it is to think that way? To want to be thought of before she decides to move her brother into her flat, and forgets I might have some input? To want to feel important to someone who's my world, someone who makes me matter?

The air around me has become colder, but I feel like I should sit this out, my punishment. What for? For thinking of myself? She does that too, it's basic human instinct, one we all bow to at some point.

For not being the boyfriend she wants me to be?

I want to ask if this is what happened with Richard, with Luka. If she pushed them, and pushed them, until they couldn't take it anymore. I know she pushed Luka away, pushed him until he gave up. I think there's a difference here though. I know I'm not going to let her. 

The door's open for a reason, I realise. She's not shutting me out totally. Some comfort. 

Some days I hate this idealised view of the world I get, the one where we live happily ever after, get married and have babies, but my optimism has to be enough for the both of us. I think that's maybe the part of us that works so well. 

Two halves of a whole.

I drag my tired body up from the steps, feeling a sharp pain shoot through my back. Great, it's back. Just what I wanted. My hands are chapped and raw, the Chicago weather obviously disagreeing with them, but I didn't feel it until I hit the warmth of the building. 

I've done this walk before. Forty five steps up, three paces forward, and a ninety degree turn left. I counted one day when I was bored, and she was taking far too long getting ready to go out. Today my legs feel heavier, my mind slightly number. Words are failing me; I don't know what I can say now, to make this better for her. Even if only for a second. I'm inwardly cursing Maggie and Eric, and their little club of two; Maggie of all people should realise how tough this is on Abby, how much she's hurting.

I hate the way this works, the way this is turning out for her. One gets better, and another has to become ill? Even trying to imagine how bad it feels that yet something else is going wrong, that the kid you thought you got through childhood is turning into the one thing you tried to protect him from, is impossible.

I reach for her door tentatively, slightly ajar, and push it open. I don't want to fight tonight, but I don't know how long I can dutifully ignore the fact that she's hurting the both of us, not just herself. How long I can neglect to tell her that, as painful as it is, she can't put her life on hold forever for them. How I can tell her this without being an insensitive jerk.

She's assumed a common position on the couch, legs curled tightly to her chest, with her chin rested atop, small sniffles she's trying to hide, the product of wounded pride, and as I move nearer she flickers an apologetic glance over to me.

That's the moment my heart will always melt.

I almost fall onto the cushions, grateful for the relief it gives my back, and immediately extend my arm. She's memorised my movements too well, because she's there almost before I offer it, head nestled into the familiar space between my jaw and shoulder, gently kissing any patch of available skin she can find there. A small hand searches out my fingers, and twines them with hers, her thumb running the length of mine. 

"I'm sorry," she whispers, barely audible over the gentle stirring of the heater and the patter of small raindrops forming on the window across from us. "I'm so sorry, John." She punctuates this apology with another kiss, this time to my chest. "I didn't want you to have to deal with thi-"

"Don't do that," I snap, annoyed, untangling myself from her. Her eyes seem to swell further, a tear finally relenting, running the course of her cheek, and I immediately berate myself for the harsh tone I used, catching the droplet with the pad of my thumb. 

"Don't apologise for them," I clarify, this time more gently. "It's not your fault." She shakes her head adamantly, swiping at her eyes with her left hand. "It's not," I repeat more firmly. 

Her expression has morphed from one of sadness to a picture of mild amazement, and she struggles with a smile. "Why do you stay for this? What do you get out of this John, what do I give you? Apart from a permanent headache-"

"Stop with the self pity," I half plead, sighing and running an exhausted hand through my hair, then venture a look at her, a mixture of emotions. "Come here," I beckon in a whisper, pulling her back towards me, as much for me as for her, and kiss along her forehead. 

"I thought I told you, you're my gift."

"I thought you knew I didn't believe you," she retorts, a slight humour returning to her, and she squeezes me gently, resuming the path she was kissing.

"I did. I'm going to make a point of saying it until you believe it," I offer by way of an answer, and feel her lips smiling on my skin. It feels good. Carefully removing a hand from around her waist, I raise it higher, tangling fingers in her hair and running my hand outwards, examining the locks.

"What are you thinking?" she hums, watching me with a smile.

"That you looked better brunette."

I brace myself for an assault of some kind for her direction, but it doesn't come. She makes a soft 'humpf' sound into my shoulder, and then withdraws herself, pulling back on to her heels. I miss the contact as soon as it's broken, my mouth letting out a small protest, and realise this is her payback. 

"Ouch," she offers dryly, making a point of standing and stretching slowly in front of me, before padding off to the kitchen. It's an agonisingly long walk, and she relishes every second of her teasing. My head flops back onto the couch, and I surreptitiously try to massage my back, the pain increasing, perhaps because my distraction has gone.

She notices, I know she does, because she returns from the kettle she was boiling, and crouches beside me, concerned. I'm supposed to take care of her tonight. "You ok?" it comes out in a soft breath, and is emphasised by little hands creeping behind me to knead at my back. She pushes me forwards to allow herself room to slide down behind me, and braces her legs either side of my body, hands still working their magic, something I'm more than happy for her to practice.

"I stay with you because you look after me?" I mumble, although I'm not sure if it's coherent.

She laughs a little. "Not well enough."

"Better than you think," I correct her firmly, but not unkindly. At this she lowers me backwards and leans across to kiss me, stray hair floating over my face like a golden curtain. Or a semi-blonde curtain. I manoeuvre her around to lie on top of me, taking better advantage of that mouth, and she hovers slightly, holding her weight on the hands placed at my sides. I shoot her a questioning look.

"I don't want to hurt you," she smiles, biting her lip. I wonder if she knows what sort of a hold she has over me. That lip running through her teeth is all I can think about, and I manage to mumble disjointedly that she couldn't hurt me before closing the gap between us. "I don't want to hurt you," she repeats, making herself heard between feverish kisses, her face very much serious, and I realise she's talking about more than a repetitive back pain. 

I haul myself back up into a sitting position. "Abby…" I begin hesitantly, unsure of what to say, stroking a palm down her cheek, and bringing it to cup her chin. "You don't."  
Her head shakes slowly. "I do. I see it, I hurt you tonight, when I left you, I…I don't mean to do it…" she trails off, clutching at the hand I was barely aware she was holding until now. I think to deny it again, but I made her promise not to hide, and I think that means I have to be honest too. She struggles to say something; I can hear the words catching in her throat.

"You don't have to say anything," I offer, calmly.

That line catches her like a startled rabbit, and she jerks her head upwards. I pray that she will tell me, but resign myself to the fact that she won't. Maybe she will one day. 

"I'm going to lose you," she says, all in one breath, seemingly shocked herself that she said it. She looks to the ceiling, and takes a calmer breath. "I'm so scared I'm going to lose you, and I'm just trying not to get…hurt when you go."

I'm conscious that I'm trying to speak, but I'm choking on the barrage of words battling to escape, fighting for prominence. I'm aware of a sigh escaping, but my mouth is dry, and for a moment I'm too shocked to even articulate my thoughts. The realisation of how much it took for her to say that, and the adorably unsure look she wears, through which I can already see her backing away slightly, shock me into action, and I shake my head. 

"I'm not going anywhere, I don't want to go anywhere. I told you, I meant it-" my voice becomes quicker with each attempt to reassure her, I can see where this is going, and I think by the nervous expression plastered on her face she can too, so I search for a better way to do this. To do this right.

Too late.

"I love you," I splutter, less confidently than I intended, and she begins to shake her head, whispering sad little 'no' sounds, perhaps from years of what she thinks is experience, but I find my voice is louder, and force her eyes to mine. 

"I love you, and I don't contemplate a time when I ever won't love you, Abby. I stay because I want to; I get _you_ out of this, because _you _is what I want. You don't have to understand it, but I need you to accept it, because that's what hurts me most of all. Your denial hurts me." I take her hand and rub it between my own. "I don't want to have to keep giving reasons why."

She nods. "I just want you to be happy. You mean too much to me to be miserable." She shoots me a nervous little smile. I think my heart just tried to escape my chest. It probably could if it tried hard enough, and it doesn't matter that I was pissed off with everything thirty minutes before, because moments like this are worth our journey. A part of me wants her to say the words, wants to be told, even though I know, because in front of me I can see a face that I think is mirroring mine. I realise she's not going to, but I can wait.

I will wait.

I'm only vaguely aware of the arms pulling me upwards, and my legs are in automatic mode as she returns to my mouth, biting gently at my lip and expertly tugging at the buttons on my shirt. I follow as she walks backwards across to her room, softly correcting her path with my hand to avoid her walking into the doorframe, and she giggles. 

"You know your way around," she observes in between muffled breaths and wandering hands, a jumble of clothes floating to the floor one after the other, slow and unhurried, a pattern I'm more than comfortable with.

To my annoyance and disbelief, although I should come to expect it at times like this, the phone shrills out a greeting, and I pause my kisses, groaning loudly. "Abby?"

"Mmm," she offered, apparently uninterested in the intruder.

"Phone?"  
"Leave it?" she suggests, rolling her eyes, and trailing warm lips down my chest.

"It might be them," I point out; unsure of why I'm protesting so much.

"It's nothing that won't wait 'till morning."

"And if it's important?"

"It's not. You," she smiles definitively, "are." 

I've been awake for an hour, long since the sheets settled, feeling strangely liberated. Finally able to say things I've kept hidden for longer than I cared to. Abby lays on my chest, breathing softly, reverently, but I know she's still awake because she's drawing gentle circles along my shoulder, barely there, like a whisper. The arm wrapped around her squeezes her in tighter, like a reflex, and I continue pretending to be asleep, because some moments shouldn't be ruined with words.

I feel less pressure on my chest, and realise she's raised up from her resting place. Momentarily, I worry that she's leaving and I stiffen, but the hand still remains, drawing those little circles, so I relax. "You're quiet when you sleep," she whispers to no one, and I wonder how often she talks to me while I'm not awake. "Peaceful," she continues, and I swear I feel her smile. 

"'Night John." Her finger pauses for a moment near my collar bone, and she breathes in deeply. "I love you." 

This information startles me, and I have to mentally restrain myself from grabbing her and repeating tonight's ending, hoping she didn't notice me move. She kisses my temple, and breathes again, before snuggling back to me, an arm lazily snaking across my stomach. "I wish I could say it when you can hear me."

My face remains motionless, but when I'm sure her head is back against my chest, I allow myself a smile. 

My last lucid thought is spent hoping she makes a habit of this sleep talking.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A/N: So, that's pretty much it, I'd be mighty grateful if you reviewed, good or bad, and for a limited time I'll throw in a free lollipop! 


	3. Forgotten

Disclaimer: See part one.

Spoilers: With a Little Help from My Friends.

Huge amounts of gratitude and free ice cream: To Charli and IAS, just because. To SK, MeganStar, AF, maven, Taylor Wise, dreaming, Ceri, Mealz, Cass and Carbyfan, and anyone else who read the last bit. Thank you, your reviews are very encouraging.

Authors note: Ok, so no doubt there are more interesting things happening in the American world of ER, but in Britain we are only up to  #11, so this is what my post ep is for. Actually, it's more of a during ep, with added scenes, missed bits and elaboration, but hey….

This was quite a hard one to do – I wasn't going to post ep it, but my challenger (who by her own request shall remain anonymous) asked me to, and I never turn down a challenge.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Honestly, I don't think I could be angrier at Pratt right now. A patient dies, bleeding and bruised, chest open on the table, feeling the last air he'd ever know, and he wasn't there to even try and help him live. Life is fragile enough as it is, and then sometimes somebody comes along and takes a hammer to it. Pratt's holding that hammer.

My fingers tighten round the suture kit in my hand, and I drop it quickly into the bag in front of me. Gallant wasn't very forthcoming with the information; I think he said the minimum amount a person could when torn between a teacher and a peer. I think it's the military man in him.

Am I a teacher?

It reaches my head as an afterthought, something I hadn't really thought of before, not since Lucy. I was a crappy teacher to her; I know I was, even though I tried not to be. It's easy to blame Paul Sobriki, to label him a killer, and to make her death and my eventual addiction all his own work. But he wasn't in control of what he was doing. He didn't know, and I did. I should have made sure psych came down. 

Lucy would be here, a resident, telling me what I should be doing, flashing a winning smile at the patients.

But she isn't.

And I am.  

For better or worse.

She creeps into my head sometimes, a painful barometer of all the things I did wrong.  Times I was too sharp with her, times I just ignored her, like that fateful Valentine's Day. 

Ignored her for Abby, Abby and the confusing force that seemed to physically draw me to her, a concept I never understood, still don't. 

Abby, who I'm currently trying to teach to trust me, another thing that deep down I know can't be taught if the pupil doesn't want to listen.

Abby, who's presently standing just a few feet away, watching me curiously.

I lift my head up; more guarded than I mean to, and she fixes me with a worried stare, which makes me wince a little. Surely she doesn't suspect I'm stealing the drug supply, especially after all this time. I reopen the bag and hold the suture kit out to her, turning it over to both hands, somewhat immaturely, to illustrate my point. "Pratt has an emergency," is all I offer, all I know to offer.

She looks stung. Apparently I can't read her as well as I imagine, because her mind was somewhere else. "What, you think I don't trust you?" she asks guardedly, crossing her arms in front of her chest, eyes building up to a slow burn. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't-" my eyes flicker to the floor guiltily, and when I look back up the stare is still there. My thoughts are poisoning me tonight.

"I wanted to borrow the Jeep," she shrugs quietly. "To-"

"Sure," I cut her off, though I'm unsure of why, I think I just want to get to Pratt and sort out whatever emergency is waiting for me, then slip into a deep and uninterrupted sleep. Selfish?

Yes.

She looks a little wounded, and I make a mental note to apologise for this later. "Keys," I offer, breaking the silence and dipping into my pocket, eyes avoiding looking at anything but the floor. After a moment of fumbling I brandish them, and pass them to her, giving her a perfunctory kiss, ending it quicker than I wanted to. "Got to go," I motion towards the direction of the door, and flash a well-meaning smile in her direction, though I'm not sure it reached my eyes. 

Why am I hurting her?

Abby remains confused, and fiddles with her feet. She nods sadly. "You stopping by later?"

The self-pitying part of me wonders why she even wants me there. I shrug. "I'm not sure." I'm lying, my bed is going to see a person for the first time in weeks tonight, but I don't tell her that.

"Umm, ok." There's a residual feeling of awkwardness now, and I break it as quickly as I can. "Don't wait up," I punctuate with a wink that I hope is playful, and with that, I'm out the door.

I pause half way to wonder why she wanted the Jeep. Lost in my thoughts, I forgot to ask.

Without even thinking I pull my coat tighter around me and walk with my head down, the better for me to ignore the world and wallow in my thoughts some more. Strange how you can start a day feeling like everything's normal, and end it in a mess.

Thoughts breeze through my skull, seemingly in time with the wind, and drift back to Lucy. I haven't thought about her for months now, the small place reserved for her has been overtaken, by other people. One person really.

Should I feel guilty?

I do. About everything. I think I always will.  People tell me it wasn't my fault. They told me every day for weeks after it happened, and a little voice in my head still tells me that now, but a louder one drowns it out.

I failed her.

And now, three years later, am I failing Pratt?

He's my responsibility, and I know I should be doing a better job of this. I think I can, I try to, but if somebody doesn't want to be taught, how far can you push them? 

Seems I'm failing in a lot of things these days.

The bitter Chicago night draws around me, wind turning my nose red and stinging at my eyes, shadows hiding my inadequacies.  It seems a perfect place to be with my melancholy. Me, me, me, poor Carter. 

My pace slows the nearer I get to my destination. I'm slightly worried about what I'll find at Pratt's apartment, whether he'll be hurt, bleeding. 

Bleeding like Lucy.

Or what if it's someone else?  Maybe I should've just directed an ambulance to his house, played by the rules I like to bend.

To bend too much.

I forcefully shake my head, as if that would dispel the thoughts betraying my better judgements, but they still float around, taunting me with each stride down the path. I count the numbers on the buildings, suddenly aware that I have no idea where Pratt lives, just a hurried mental road map supplied by Gallant. I fleetingly wish I'd brought the Jeep. 

This seems to be the place. It looks like he described, and I can see various lights in the window, some twinkling, others flickering into blackness. Briefly checking that he package is still in my hands, I start to climb the stairs.

_Hey, Pratt, what the hell do you think you're doing?_

Muffled sounds seep through the door, which I take to be his, and I pause, wondering how he'll react. He didn't seem very forthcoming when he hung up on me earlier. I knock a few times, and footsteps approach, only he's talking to Gallant, not me. 

I brace myself. _Hey, Pratt. I came to help?_

"Running a little clinic out of the apartment?" That's definitely not what I meant to say, but I make no apology for it. Predictably, he starts to slam the door. The doctor in me reacts. "Who's hurt?"

He reluctantly lets me in, and my eyes adjust to the slight darkness. His apartment was obviously home to one of those dim lights from the street. He deposits that it's his brother, and I make some judgemental comment about him not being smart, which I don't apologise for either. It's not smart. But I guess we'll have to be stupid together, because with Pratt, I don't want to fail, I will make this work. 

So I do.

Turns out his brother was stabbed, over the gun he brought in this morning. I find myself unsurprised by this information, and we exchange minimum words, only essential medical jargon, and a mutter of thanks from him, a rehearsed "You didn't have to," speech.

Leon is wailing, and I watch Pratt calm him, lead him and his freshly bandaged wound to a small room at the back of the apartment. I've never seen Pratt like this, sympathetic, affected, humane. Always wrote him off as a one-dimensional idiot, a burden I had to try and tame, to lift the best I could.

I never gave him a moment's thought once I got home, never wondered about him the way I wonder about others, the way I wonder about Gallant. Guilt cuts through me. All this time.  No one's been thinking about Pratt.

He re-emerges, looking tired and a little broken, with shades of embarrassment at the fact he gave in to help. This is familiar to me. I smile awkwardly, and he shuffles past me, muttering something about needing air, and heading for the stairwell.

"Thanks," he mutters hesitantly between the slapping of his soles against the stairs, barely looking up at me. "You didn't have to stay."

I shrug, unsure of how to answer. "You needed the help," I finally reply subtly, and we exit the building, cold air hitting my lungs mercilessly. He seats himself on the outside wall sighing and rubbing his head, which I assume to be the bald man's equivalent of running his hands through his hair.

"Leon, he's your brother?"

We're sitting outside now, the last remnants of snow flickering about in the air, and he seems strangely calm. His brother's upstairs, sleeping. I wonder what sort of an effect this has on him; I'd have bet money on him being angrier than this, not…used to it.

"No, well, yeah, kind of…" he stumbles into a brief life story, Leon coming to them, his mother dying, Leon's bullet to the brain. I've never taken any interest in Pratt's non-medical life, but there's more to him than I gave him credit for. 

Guts. Loyalty.

"I've been doing it on my own for years, I'm good at that," he continues, and in this he reminds me again of Abby, possibly the last person I would have connected him with.

Maybe he and I have more in common than I thought, because there's a loneliness there that I think I know about. I try to tell him he has to learn to trust people, otherwise no one will give the same trust to him; and think maybe this lecture could be stored and reused on another person too. Or recorded, so I can just repeat it to her whenever the situation calls for it. I suggest if he continues not to trust, he should think about becoming a surgeon.

Briefly, I realise that my intern also has shades of the man who taught me -- stubbornness, a belief he could handle anything by himself, when really he couldn't.

A harshness that covers his exterior, but gives way to something deeper on the inside, something more human.  I wonder if he's happy where he is now. If he remembers me, how he remembers me. As a pupil?  A drug addict?  A friend? 

How, in ten years time, will I remember Pratt? I hope to think I'll respect him, and he'll respect me, like I respected Dr. Benton. He tried so hard to make me a good surgeon. Only I was a better doctor. 

I think Pratt will be too. 

I fumble for some words of wisdom that might help him, or illustrate this notion, but they don't seem to vocalise. 

He's wishing me away now, wanting me gone, I can tell that people helping him isn't something he's either used to, or comfortable with. "Asking for help when you need it doesn't make you weak," I finally and pointedly utter. He nods, listening, although I don't know whether I got through to him.

I resolve to keep trying, and take my leave. I think he watches for a while, but halfway down the street I hear a call of "G!" and the door closing hastily.

The Chicago wind always seems to know that I'm coming, because whenever I venture out, it hits me like a thousand icicles, seemingly taking pleasure in the discomfort it is able to cause, but, like any other night, I soldier on, tucking my scarf a little tighter to block out whatever cold I can.

The blackness around me is almost entrancing; it sucks me in, sometimes praying for me to join with it, so it can surround me with its misery. Walking, in spite of the wind and the possible chance of snow, brings a new sobriety to my thoughts, and I try to resolve them, let Lucy's memory find some peace. Because all I want to do is sleep now, sleep until it all goes away.

How did I even get here?

I pass her street without incident. I'm aware of it, aware of the faint lights dancing in the windows of her apartment block, but tonight the darkness wins, and alone with my thoughts I continue to my own, little used, apartment.

Very few places here have gardens. I've never noticed, or never cared to notice this before, but they don't. Two doors down from the entrance to my apartment, Mrs Farris' roses seem to be holding on as best they can in the current climate, it seems a pity that with possessions so simple and beautiful she has to be a miserable and resentful old woman. I allow myself a smile, scanning them, some wilting, some already dead, and one that seems to be almost alive. I absentmindedly pluck this one from the bush, turning it over in my fingers.  

In the small beam of light emerging from the street lamp, the rose is nearly blood red, yet when captured by the shadows it shines a glorious burgundy colour, and is more entrancing. Some of the petals are wilting, slightly shrivelled into themselves, and a rebel thorn punctures the skin of my thumb. The pain subsides quickly. Seems I didn't pick the perfect rose.

But, then again, maybe I didn't want to.

I don't notice the small figure lurking next to my door until I'm much closer, and the appearance throws me completely, leaving me wondering what exactly she's doing here.

"You looked a little…weird, when you left," she shrugs an explanation without me asking, dark eyes watching me intently. In this moment she looks quite beautiful, dim light falling over her features, hair suffering the after effects of the wind that claimed my own, and mouth set in a strange shape, perhaps unsure of how to react.

"It's late," I offer, checking my watch in the hope that it's true. "I didn't want to wake you."

"I had to return your Jeep," she motions to the car parked a few metres away. "I don't think I hurt her," she continues with a little, unsure laugh.

"You should have kept her for the night."

"You might have needed her."

I jerk the hand containing the rose upwards, offering it out to her, a metaphorical olive branch, and she studies us both for a moment before she accepts, with a small smile. It twirls between delicate white fingers, skilfully avoiding the prickles. "Something tells me you didn't pick this for me," she jokes.

"I had you in mind."

"About earl-"

"Are you-" We speak in unison, which elicits nervous smiles, and she motions for me to go first.  I rest myself on the small wall beside us, and she follows suit, hugging her arms to her body.

"I'm sorry, about today, I didn't mean to be…" I gesticulate with my hand, trying to summon the right word, but it doesn't come, so I let the sentence hang. She knows what I mean.  

"You ok?" she asks with a tenderness that never fails to make me feel wanted, stroking a cautious finger over my hand, and then twining it with her own when she feels more confident.

I'm reluctant to meet her gaze, but it remains steady. "Tough day."

"Wanna talk about it?"

I shake my head. "I've just been thinking."

"About?" she seems reluctant to push this, but she does it gently, still running a finger lightly up and down my thumb, her hands now cold to the touch, but strangely soothing. Suddenly, and stiffly, she stops.

I shake my head. "Not that," I whisper, planting a small kiss on the hand that's calming me. She looks relieved, then a little embarrassed. "Just things." 

We've done this before, a different setting this time, a switching of roles, but we've done it before. Perfected it nearly, the art of sitting and not talking. "Are we the world's most dysfunctional couple?"

"What?" she chuckles disbelievingly, regarding me strangely. 

"Nothing. I didn't mean to say that out loud." I'm laughing now, shaking my head slightly.

She leans in to my ear, and whispers in it conspiratorially. "I don't think 'thinking's' good for you," she confesses with a smile. 

"Lucy," I supply, blurting it out. "I was thinking about Lucy." Half of me waits for her to think I'm crazy, or at least a little odd, but she just nods and squeezes my hand a little harder, asking for no explanation, but I offer one anyway. "I remember her sometimes. The mess I made."

Silence.

I stumble for a moment. "Of teaching her. She was my responsibility; mine. I don't want to make the same mistakes again." Was she even following this?

"Pratt ok?"

She's following. "Mm-hmm. He's good."

"Good." Looking out into the night, she leans into me slightly, and I absentmindedly kiss her forehead. "You're a good man, John," she whispers seriously, tapping her fingers against my own. I want to agree with her, but I think this image she holds is exaggerated, even if it does feel good to hear her say that.

"She drive nicely for you?" I ask, motioning to the Jeep. "What did you want her for?"

She deflects the question nicely, in her usual manner, her mission a secret. Not that I blame her; I haven't divulged mine. "She? Does _she_ have a name?" 

"No. You going to offer one?"

"She's your baby." The involuntary shudder she lets out reminds me how cold it is, and I pull her upwards with me in one swift movement, nodding towards the door in invitation. My melancholy can enjoy the cold for a while; I'm taking a happy and warm break. 

"I don't know," she sighs, raising an eyebrow. "It's nearly unchartered territory."

"My bed gets lonely?" I try my best cutesy voice, and run my hands down the outside of her jacket, tugging gently at the lapels.

I pull her the final distance to me, and, rolling her eyes, she meets my mouth gently in the middle, small hands resting on my forearms, rubbing tiny circles. She lets out a sweet little sigh, and my own hands enclose around her waist, laying claim to it. A loud cough disturbs us from the street, and we both turn to watch the unknown owner wander past with his dog, shaking his head and muttering something about couples.

Our foreheads reluctantly part, and I cast an amused glance at her as she nods, failing to suppress a small smile, and then looking down in dismay at her now crinkled and snapped rose. She holds the flower up to me and cocks her head, the flower dangling unhealthily to the left, petals squashed into an ovalish shape and looking particularly pitiful.

I pull a face. "It's the thought that counts?" She looks dubious about this. 

"It'll grow back stronger next year," she whispers almost inaudibly from behind me, as I flick my key in the lock. Her sentence stops me, and I venture a curious look at her, trying to quell the smile building up inside of me.

"What?" I ask nonchalantly, pretending I didn't hear her.

She isn't convinced, because she pulls a disbelieving face, but complies anyway. "Roses." She motions with her hands distractedly, "Flowers in general. You grow them, they wilt, but you have a little faith and they come back stronger the next year." The last part is said with a cautious glance up at me, which fades into another little smile when she sees my own.

I continue with the lock and it gives way, I wonder what sort of a state I left my apartment in. I reach a hand out behind me and turn in time to see her placing her rose down on the ground, and watching it for a beat, the wind hitting at it unrelentingly. Then she slides a small hand into mine and follows me in.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A/N: If you liked it/hated it/have an opinion on it, drop me a line!


	4. From Riches To Rags

**Author's Note:** Ahem. Ok, post ep for "Saint in the City." Umm, with a slight difference that is unlikely to have happened afterwards, but in my little world it did, and that's enough.

Umm, hope you like it. If you have an opinion on it, review, I still have some lollies left for bribery purposes….

**Special thanks and free kisses to: **Charli, my girl, for beta-ing and general goodness (quick plug for her fic "Better By Far You Should Forget and Smile" – read it, 'tis magnifique!) 

Also to IAS, who, like a good playmate, has learnt to share Carter and his inner world, although she still snatches sometimes ;o) , and Sunni for creative input, if you haven't read their post eps, where have you been?

And, last but not least, to: Brookestar, dreaming, Taylor Wise, Lesbiassparrow, kla, CARBYfan, maven, Megan Star, Jess, Mealz and hottie for their lovely reviews. Mwah.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

There's a lady who's sure

All that glitters is gold

And she's buying a Stairway to Heaven.

Led Zeppelin.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"You'll make a good servant yet!" McNulty calls after me, and I wave my hand in the air, without turning around, to indicate that I heard him. He laughs slightly, then I hear the clinic door slam and I find myself alone on the street, next to my Jeep.

I knew he wouldn't take the cheque, he's too stubborn, and I think too proud to, but I'm glad he let me do something. Even if it was just cleaning. I climb into the jeep, falling tiredly into the driver's seat and rubbing hot palms over my face. 

Pride. That's something I'm not sure I have right now.

Not in relation to my family; at least, my background. I wish I could feel proud of it, of what they did, of how they earned their fortune, but I can't, and I won't. I'm not ashamed of who I am, or even who they are, but I'm ashamed of why they are. 

I look at someone like McNulty, who's putting his whole life, his own money, and so much effort into something he obviously believes in, and he'll make no profit from it, he'll simply struggle through life, if he doesn't go bankrupt, and only have the help he lets people give. But he still does it.

Gamma sits back on her couch for an hour and makes a couple of thousand.

This isn't a fair comparison, and I don't begrudge her the money, it was her legacy the same way she wants it to be mine, but the unfairness of it all is astounding to me.  I never thought money was the answer to most things, the answer to anything really, all I know is that money has always brought me misery – a bullied and lonely childhood, a mother who never cared the way she should have, and a life I've tried my best to avoid. I go to a charity gala twice a year, compliantly sign a few cheques, but that's the most I have, the most I _want_, to do with it.

I want people to see me, John Carter, not a rich guy with more money than he can count. Because I don't want to be dismissed like that, I want to mean something in my own right, not mean something due to an inheritance. 

I don't envy me, I pity me.

Even now I look back in anger at the sexual harassment seminar we had to sit through last year, the way they all sat and judged me, even Abby, and dismissed the idea that my childhood may have been painful, because I had money. Yes money. After all, that's what makes the world go round.

So I'm told.

I'm quick to offer it, because it means nothing to me, it's almost a guilty reaction, throwing money at people, to placate them, to try and make amends. Now more than ever I know that money is the most and least valuable thing in the world. I still believe what I said to her this evening, I give my time at County, and that's more valuable than a ten million dollar cheque. Our last conversation haunts me.

_"I feel passionate about what I'm doing, okay? I feel passionate about working at County."_

_"Who says you can't do both?"_

Why can't they realise I don't **want** to do both? I want nothing to do with the Carter Family Fortune, I'd rather burn it to heat the boiler in McNulty's clinic right now, but Gamma's always pushed me, and pushed me, and now Abby's doing it too. And that makes me madder than anything else, because she doesn't have any right to do that.

She knows me, she has the courage to call me on things other people never have, and she makes more sense to me than she knows, but she has no right to do that. Not when she consistently fights to keep me in the shadows of her family.

I hope it feels good to be in my shoes.

I realise I've been sitting here longer than I should have, and I trigger the engine, letting it roar into action. This is accompanied with the blaring beginnings of a song I can only presume is part of Abby's CD collection, though I've never heard it before. I hastily eject the disc, and shift the Jeep into drive.  My bed has never been as appealing. The rest of my journey is spent shaking off any thoughts of the disaster tonight turned into, and planning out in my head how many shifts I could take on with McNulty if he'll let me. Two or three a week, I think. Or maybe more.

For the first time in a long while I'm excited about something work related, eager to help out with this clinic. He thinks I'm trying to drown out the demons that come with 'white liberal guilt'. I'd like to prove him wrong.

I reach home before I realise it, and drag myself up the steps, searching for my key. I stand on something before I reach the door, and lift my foot up curiously. It's something that was left there a few days ago; the last time my apartment saw life. Her rose. 

How symbolic.

Picking it up, I rest it on the wall, I'm not sure why, I just don't want anyone to stand on it. It's as good as dead anyway, three lone petals gasping for life amidst tens of dried, weather beaten ones, but the sadistic part of me wants to see how long they last.

I push the door to my rented two bed-roomed apartment open, and contemplate calling her, something I should have done after the way I unceremoniously dropped her off at her place, but my cheap watch tells me its past 2am, and I don't want to wake her. 

Flopping onto my bed, I hope that sleep will drown my bitterness away. It's been visiting me too much for my liking lately.

~ * ~

I'm rudely awoken by a sharp, impatient knocking, and after stumbling out of bed and failing to locate a t-shirt, then hitting my toe on the door frame, I wrap a sheet around myself and hobble painfully to the door, cursing people who choose to call at this hour.

9am. Well, that's still early. The knocking persists. I might as well have stationed a small woodpecker outside for all the noise they were making. That'd be a way to spend Gamma's money. "Coming!" I mutter grumpily, and practically fling the door open, adopting as unamused a face as I can muster. It's not difficult.

"Morning," she looks me up and down with a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow, apparently amused by my ensemble, and squeezes herself past me, scooting over to the window and dragging open the curtains, which gave way easily to a blinding beam of sunlight. 

"God, Abby, it's early," I moan and turn to her, covering my face and gesticulating with my hand for her to shut them again. She refuses, so I pad back to my bedroom, and indicate for her to follow me, locating my elusive T-shirt on the way. "It's my day off," I continue to grumble, pulling the cotton over my head, and running my hands over my face.

"I love to see you too," she deadpans, and throws over a pair of my pants from their messily folded pile on the floor. "It's _our _day off," she qualifies to my bemused face. "We have plans."

I'm not even sure why she's so eager to see me after last night, but she seems to have forgotten about the fundraiser, and my muttered explanation about visiting McNulty instead of the coffee she offered, and is in good spirits, which is infectious. I guess last night can be struck off and never mentioned again. Forgotten. I think this is the way these things work, but you'd have to ask her about that. "Where are we-"

"Surprise."

"What's in your hand?"

"Umm, you'll see." She glances over at me cautiously. "You awake yet?"

I nod, and lazily extend an arm, pulling her over to me and onto my lap. "Hi," I reply, flashing my eyes up to her in what I hope is an alluring manner and tilting her face to greet her in the welcome kiss we should have begun with.

"Mm, hi," she repeats, running a hand through my already messy tufts of hair. Catching her off guard, I haul her backwards onto the bed with me, and snake my spare arm round her waist. 

"'S early," I mumble, giving her little chance to protest between kisses. "Too early to go out yet."

"We're going."

I nestle my head between her neck and shoulder, a place particularly susceptible to this form of bribery. "Ten minutes," I promise.

"Get up," she nudges me, and tries to sit up herself, tugging on my arm. I ignore her, and continue my trail of lazy kisses. "JOHN!"

"Okay, okay." I raise my hands in defeat. "But we have to do what I decide later," I add, pulling on the khakis she'd thrown at me.

"Deal." She certifies this by locking our hands, and pulls me up, picking up the package she'd hastily dropped on the floor a moment ago.

"What is that?"

Continuing on her path to the door, she pulls out a slightly scruffy, obviously well loved teddy bear, and I shoot her a confused glance. "We're returning it," she answers before I've formulated the question.

"To whom?"

"To Lewis."

"To Lewis?" I repeat, reaching behind me to pull the door closed and fumbling with the lock for a moment. I look over at her, and she nods, taking the hand I offer when it becomes available again. "He's a kid I treated two days ago. Left his teddy. I'm returning it."

"When did we become delivery men?" I question, still wary of this little trip.

"He's five, he misses his teddy bear. Have a heart," she adds with a smirk. 

We come to the outer door and I nod a greeting to the janitor, happily running his brush along the hallway and whistling a vaguely recognisable tune. He returns the gesture. "Goodbye, Abigail," he adds, and she flashes a smile over at him. 

"Thanks Mr Dresler," she calls back, and he returns to his sweeping. "He let me in," she adds, her gait pausing slightly when she catches sight of the dying flower on the wall and a small smile creeps across her mouth, but only for a second.

I pretend not to notice. "So he's the one I have to thank for my lack of sleep…"

~ * ~

It's unusually warm today, particularly for January, and the sun is shining down quite heavily, though the slight chill in the breeze remains. Her hair's tousled and a little unruly, but in the rays it's never really looked more beautiful to me. She notices me staring and hides a grin. I continue to be baffled about Lewis and the lost teddy bear.

We've hit a part of the city I'm not wholly familiar with, but she seems to know it well, and after various twists, turns, and one wrong street, we land outside a large looking building, grubby from the outside, but containing colourful pictures inside what look like classrooms.

Children are congregated outside in excited and colourful little huddles, some laughing and talking, and others playing with a small, dirty football. I shoot her my third quizzical glance of the day. She points over to a rather grubby five year old with a fat face, a plaster cast wrist and blue jumper, which, as we get nearer I notice sports a large hole in the sleeve. "Lewis," she mouths at me.

"Abby!" He sees us and runs over excitedly, the friends he was with looking curiously on, pointing in our direction.

"Hi," she continues, dropping my hand and kneeling beside Lewis, drawing the soft toy from her bag. She's a natural.

"Dimples!" he shouts, lunging for it and holding it triumphantly into the air for his companions to see. A few older boys laugh at his eagerness over something so babyish, but he doesn't seem to hear them, or just ignores them.

He looks up at me and flashes another broad grin, which I return easily. "Hey Lewis. That's Dimples?" I ask, motioning to the bear.

"Dimples Brennan," he answers importantly, reaching out a chubby arm. "I'm Lewis Brennan."

"I'm John Carter, Abby's friend," I reply, holding my hand out to him, which he takes and shakes hard, smiling proudly at exchanging such a grown up greeting. An older looking woman shouts at him from across the yard, and with one last grin and a hearty 'thank you' he is gone, running back off in the direction of the building. "Where are we?" I ask Abby, who is distractedly gazing into the distance.

"Greenacres Centre," she mumbles. "It's run by that woman over there, Mrs Hare," she nods towards the older woman who shouted for Lewis, now seeing to a young girl who appears to have wounded her knee. Pieces of the puzzle begin to formulate in my mind. I don't like where this is going. "It's kind of a place that kids from broken families can come, to hang out, to play after school. She looks after about 50 children in the afternoon and all day Saturdays, has volunteer teachers who help her. Gets donations which keep it running."

Ah, Contrivance, and Abby is thy name. "She does?" I ask mock enthusiastically, the situation now all too apparent. It wasn't forgotten, it was just brushed under the carpet for twenty-four hours, waiting to come back and bite me.  

She notices me stiffening because she deflates a little. "Lewis came in with a broken wrist two days ago. I was talking to Mrs Hare." She pauses. I just look off into the distance, fumbling in my pockets. "I just wanted you to see there are worthwhile projects out there…" she attempts to explain, then trails off.

"So you thought you'd guilt me into giving out my money?" I ask incredulously.

She looks taken aback, then infuriated. "No! How can you- No. All I wanted to do was to show you that there are some causes out there." She states her case adamantly, and struggles to keep defiant hair tucked behind her ears.

"That I can pawn my soul and become treasurer for?" I snap unnecessarily.

"That you can use your wealth to fight for," she corrects me, turning away in disgust. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, because this was obviously a bad idea."

"Obviously," I agree.

"Why don't you want anyone to know about your wealth? Why don't you want to use it?" She's exasperated now, although I don't think she has any real right to be. This is my business, my 'inheritance'.

"People know I'm rich."

"And it doesn't change their opinion of you."

"It does," I state flatly and quickly, biting my lip.

"Not mine." Stopping in my tracks, I shift to face her. "It's never changed how I felt; it's just a part of you. I care about you regardless of the money, John." I know. I never doubted that, I didn't. My silence and the nod that follows it is an immature attempt to end the conversation, but she doesn't want that yet. "Why do you think that money is automatically negative?"

Because it is? Don't preach to me Abby, don't do it. "I don't think that. I just don't want that to be my life. Could we leave this now please?" I ask rudely, heading back across the yard. 

"You never talk to me about your family."

"That's because we're so busy talking about yours," I retort sarcastically, without turning round. "You know, the times you confide in me." I cringe inwardly, well aware that that was off the mark, but unable to apologise for it.

"So this is punishment?" she mouths in disbelief. I shake my head, then walk out of the gates, back onto the sunlit street.

"You were right," I call behind me bitterly, turning to face her again. "It bothers me. My wealth bothers me, and you called me on it, good for you!" I punctuate the congratulations by kicking the empty soda can in front of me, and it bounces mercilessly off the fence. 

"Grow up, John."

"Why did you bring me here, knowing what I said last night? Did you _listen _to what I said?" She nods defiantly, arms tightly crossed across her chest. "I'm proud of what I do, Abby. I don't want to be a treasurer, or a secretary, or a chairman, I want to be a doctor, and I want to do it well. That's all. That's it." I venture another look across at her, still quietly angry, but listening. We come to a halt against a cold stonewall, hidden from the warmth in the shadows. It seems appropriate.

"They'd be grooming Bobby for the chairman role" I add after a beat. "I think he would have been better at this than me, he'd be the one who would take over." Things would be different. I freeze a little. I rarely mention Bobby, remember him a lot, but never talk about him, something I learnt growing up. His name was greeted with a stony silence or an unhappy glance, and we were all quickly trained not to bring the subject up. But it's true. He was easier around the charity work and the money than I ever was.

She reaches an arm out to me and strokes down my own gently, changing tack. "This wasn't the first time? The first time she asked you, I mean. She asked you before?" 

I nod. "Almost every time I see her." When I speak again, it's tiredly, resigned, and aimed at the dirt. "I am ashamed of it. I'm ashamed of the way they got the money, I'm ashamed of the way they parade it." That's not true, I know Gamma uses the money for charity, for her worthy causes, but you mention the name Carter and any Chicago native immediately associates you with vast wealth. It's infuriating, you're not really a person anymore.

"Why?" I thought we'd been through this. That at least I thought I'd explained eloquently enough; they prospered while the poor got poorer and children shivered in the cold. She's persistent, I'll grant her that, but her questions are ones I can't, or don't want to answer. 

"I went to see McNulty." She nods, she knows this already, and I consider telling her about the cheque, but I don't, instead choosing to ramble for a little while about McNulty, how he made me sweep, and the kind of place he has there. She surveys me with interest, and I change my mind. "I offered him a cheque." She shoots her head up, and watches, waiting, but it's my turn not to look at her. "For equipment. He ripped it up."

"You gave him a cheque," she repeats, unsurprised, but thoughtful.

"I wanted to help him. Something you said last night, it made sense. I could make a difference, I could have made one to McNulty." I flicker my eyes over to where she is, leaning against the gate and examining her foot, but looking secretly pleased with herself. I shouldn't encourage her; she might make a habit of interfering. 

My next statement is measured, but I hope adamant, because it's something she just has to accept. "I can make one. But I don't want to be part of some old boy's club. I've resisted Gamma on this so far, and she's a more…" I struggle for the word, and try to get her to help me out, turning my hand in circles until I find it, "frightening prospect than you," I finish, chuckling slightly.

"Thanks," she mutters in a mock hurt tone, still banging her heel against the ground, but looking up for long enough to study my face. I make no further attempt to answer, and a silence descends, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Seeing she'll get no further in her inquiries, and apparently accepting my statement, she smiles. "C'mon," she beckons, reaching out a hand.

"Where are we going now?" I ask warily.

"You said you got to pick what we did later. Here's your chance." I take her hand now, palms loosely linked and suddenly steer her in the opposite direction, heading further to the outskirts of the city, scanning the buildings for some sign of recognition. "What are you doing?" she asks.

"If I remember rightly, there's a nice little café round here somewhere…" I mutter, raising up on my toes a little and continuing until I see a corner house I recognise, standing proudly on it's own, a small garden that was once blooming now slightly less so, and a view that I envied as a child looking out onto a park, where a cluttering of children screamed and giggled. My grip on her hand tightens. "That way," I nod, bringing her with me.

"You want **coffee**?" she questions, disappointed. "I have coffee at my apartment…"

"You're going to love this place," I promise her. "It's quirky, friendly and inexpensive," I add with a smirk.

She fakes a smile, and rolls her eyes, then studies me for a moment. Lifting up onto her toes, she cups my face in two small hands and leaves a lingering kiss on my mouth. We fit together too easily, because now I no longer want to move.

"What was that for?"

She shrugs. "I don't do it enough." We continue our slow walk down the hill, and I wonder how long this respite will be, before we return to the family sticking point. Then I realise that it doesn't matter. I don't want some perfect Brady Bunch existence. 

I'll just take her.


	5. Faded Blurred Vision

**Author's Note: **Ok, I have a feeling the next few episodes are going to be Abby centric, so there won't be any of these for a while I don't think, but I'm sure you'll all live without them. If you're desperate for a post ep to something, you can mail me, and I'll try, but like I said, I think you'll all live. So, until I'm feeling Carter inspired again….

**Spoilers:** For No Good Deed Goes Unpunished. (Episode 13)

**Disclaimer:** Totally not mine.

**Thanks to**: Everyone who has reviewed thus far, and Charli, for being a (very anal) beta, and IAS, for being…well, less anal. ;o)

~ * ~ * ~  
_To trust people is a luxury in which only the rich can indulge; the poor cannot afford it._

**E.M. Forster **~ "Howards End."  
~ * ~ * ~

Insulin tucked firmly into my coat pocket, I locate the keys to my Jeep and head for the parking lot. For a doctor, McNulty's not as careful as he could be. I'm not sure whether it's because he doesn't care, or whether he feels he doesn't have time to, but the woman who came to me this morning, his assistant, obviously seems to share my worry that'll he'll make himself ill.

He seems more susceptible to help now though, he gratefully accepted my cheque and, I hope, the help I'm going to offer him tonight – I want to lend a hand with the clinic, maybe put in a few shifts. I think he'll say yes, but I don't want him to agree just because of the money.

That's the one slight thing plaguing me right now. I shake it out of my head. It felt good giving it, especially after he ripped the last one up; wonderful seeing the slight smile cross his harsh features as he looked at it. And to think it's mainly because of Abby calling me on my weaknesses that led me to write it out. Didn't see that one coming, although I'm not sure why not.

I smile. She's infiltrating my world in these little ways, and I'm not sure whether she even knows it. But she is. Gently pushing me, opening my eyes to little possibilities I've been blind to. I guess love does change a man, as sickly as that sounds. But, then again, I was never good at being cool and aloof. 

"The Barbie and Ken of the medical world." I like that title.

My mind wanders briefly in an uncoordinated pattern to Pratt and Leon. I wonder if he got to the station safely. How Pratt feels. I know it can't be easy letting someone you care about so much go. What is it about brothers and this city?

I never thought I'd be this concerned about him, never really thought that I'd think of him as anything but an arrogant 'bro from the hood', with definite attitude issues. But people surprise you sometimes, and tonight seems to be a night for second chances. 

Glaring red traffic lights force me to stop, although the streets are so quiet I hardly see the point; I could easily turn without coming anywhere near contact with another car. But, like the unspoken law enforcers that they are, they make me wait, strangely impatient to get to the clinic; partially out of a nagging worry McNulty might be ill, but more so for nervous reasons, like I'll get there and he'll not want my money anymore, he'll give it back – it was almost too good to be true when he took it.

Red blinks to amber, and then green, and my foot connects with the gas again, sending me further into the night, my unease settling, although as I pull up to the building, I find it shouldn't do. It's dark, frighteningly so, not a trace of glimmer or a sound emitting from the walls or windows, and I wonder what state I'll find him in. I check my watch. He could be in serious shock by now.

"Dr McNulty?" my shout seems to be to no avail, yet I accompany it with a loud knock. Behind me I hear a vague whirring of an engine, but think nothing of it, until a bright and blinding light shines into my face, causing me to blink furiously. He asks me if everything's all right, in a suitably policeman-like tone, and I over-explain the situation, slightly embarrassed that he thought I might be committing an offence.

Seemingly pacified with this clarification, he helps me to enter. In a record time of 1.3 seconds, upon opening the door, my heart drops, more out of shock than fear or distress. It's…empty. The corner where two old but defiant beds stood, now vacant, a few littered cups the only remnants of the table McNulty had set up to write and work from. No chairs, no medicine…nothing. What happened?

I realise that the thought of aliens descending and randomly taking a whole clinic, an old man and his assistant is a little too fantastical, and uncertainty begins to creep in, wrapping strong palms around my stomach and wrenching.

Uncertainty gives way to denial, at my own request. "This is his clinic. This was his clinic for twenty years." It's true. There has to be an explanation for it, twenty-year old clinics don't just disappear like this. Maybe he moved. Found a new place, and was going to tell me, but…he was at the hospital today, the perfect opportunity for a relaying of such news would have been then, and it becomes painfully apparent that my rationalising will get me nowhere.

Has it been here for twenty years? I've lived in Chicago for 31, and I'd never heard of nor seen it until a week or so ago. No one else at the hospital seems to have known about it either. Has it stood here, unnoticed, for all that time? My question is answered by the policeman, who deposits that it was a Christian bookstore, and before that a tanning parlour. Shit. I would laugh if I thought I could.

The wrenching at my stomach ceases, and is replaced by what feels like a short sharp punch. The policeman continues, but I don't entirely hear him, I just keep staring in disbelief, imagining the way things looked three short days ago with each flicker of my eyes. 

"Was that guy even a real doctor?" I don't know. I do not know. I gave a substantial amount of money to someone I knew _nothing_ about. How could I be so stupid? Left alone, I laugh mirthlessly, sound echoing from the walls, intent on mocking me, like a whole audience queued up to point and stare at the silly little rich boy who thought he could change the world.

Unable to accumulate anything more than numbness, I kick a cup against the wall, but without any real passion. Then I just stand there, like an unsteady statue, unsure of what the hell to do.

The walk back outside to the Jeep, mingled with the icy wind intent on getting my attention, wakes me up a little, and I begin to rush through the thoughts building in my head. I can cancel the cheque. First thing tomorrow, he won't have had time to cash it.

I should feel relief at this, but I don't. I don't, because it's not really about the money. It's not about the cheque at all; it's about the fact that I was completely stung, that I started to care about something, get excited about something, that didn't exist. That someone could do something like this, so easily, so well. It's about the fact that gullible now seems to be a word made to describe me.

"Ken and Barbie"? Suddenly that phrase has a whole new meaning. I seem to suit the title, my head filled with plastic instead of the compulsory brain matter. How come I didn't see this?

My day replays in my head, but with a twisted spin – the grateful smile at the sight of the money he was about to receive becomes a calculated, cunning grin at the fact that this time he had a cheque with enough zeros etched on it, the emotional plea from his assistant becomes a planned and stealthy attack, planting the final figure in my head, without my knowing. I sit in the Jeep, but I can't bring myself to move quite yet. 

So much for being worried he'd tear my money up again.

He wasn't loathed to accept charity. He tore up that first cheque to get a bigger one, and he singled me out from the start because he knew he could manipulate me. How? Do I emit vibes that lure all bad situations to me? Again, I'm a doormat, something for people to walk across and use, but never particularly care about.

I just feel empty.

~ * ~  * ~ * ~

"I'm in the bathroom!" she shouts out to me upon hearing my key turn in the lock. Too late to go back, then. I don't even know why I'm here, I just know that the bitter loneliness of my own apartment isn't appealing to me, and the thought of picking up an extra shift at the hospital tonight is much too tiring.  I just want to find her, and hold her, and feel something real.

I aim my coat for the coat rack, but it misses, and puddles on the floor pathetically. I leave it; I'll pick it up later. "You're earlier than I thought," she calls again from the depths of the bathroom, sounding unusually happy, almost gleefully. I mark it down to Eric's return, and find it somewhat amusing that we seem incapable of both being happy at the same time. Or ironic?

"Yeah," I answer back, for want of something better to say. I don't know if I want to go through this, and longingly wish for a break, just to stride out of the door and go nowhere until this blows over.

She appears at the other end of the room, my back is to her, but I hear small padding footsteps. When I turn, she's glowing, dressed in her robe, and a particularly endearing smile, and before I know it, she's wrapped small arms around me in a bear hug, snuggling into my chest. Hesitantly, I raise and descend an arm to return the gesture, but my heart isn't in it. "Eric's really good," she muffles into my chest.

"Yeah?"

 "Yeah. He looks so well, you know, on his meds, sane. He's got the plane, and I think he's gonna be a bush pilot-"

She moves backwards and trails off, surveying me with interest, turning to dread when she notes my expression. Her arms fall loosely from my waist, and her eyes dim, like they always do when she automatically decides that my problem is her. I think the technical word for it is 'shutting down'. "What's wrong?" she whispers. 

Now _I_ feel like shutting down. I don't know, she always made it look quite fun. Inwardly I fight the bitter sarcastic thoughts eating at me, because it isn't her fault they are there. But they want to lash out, and she's the only person within hearing distance. "Nothing," I shrug semi-convincingly, and wind an arm round her waist, pulling her to me.

She follows, and nestles herself in the usual position between my shoulder and neck, and I absentmindedly run fingers through her hair, all part of our 'routine'. I don't want to really discuss the McNulty situation; if anything, I want to lose this numb feeling eating its way through me, and for a moment I wonder if I can just never mention it, cancel the cheque, say he left town. Then she wouldn't know what a mess I made. It's not really plausible though; she'd want to know the details. 

Instead, I kiss her, gently at first, comfort filling me, and then with an increased passion, actively searching out her lips. She sighs sweetly, sinking into the embrace, and loosely draping arms around my neck, gently stroking the nape, but the pace becomes too slow for me, and I alter it, arms clutching more tightly, tugging gently at her robe, and fingers wandering down her spine.

She pulls back a little, but I move forward, and then she mumbles my name through kisses. "John," she repeats, more sternly, pausing my actions, and shaking me out of the trance-like state I was in. Her face reveals some slight anger, but more concern, and she cocks her head, running soft fingers down my cheek. "What's wrong?"

What, she can use sex to block things out and I can't? Seems somewhere along the line I got the game wrong, she gets to use whatever she wants as a weapon, a distraction, yet I have to be open and honest at all times. My arms drop abruptly, and my body shifts, feet carrying me to the kitchen and pausing to flick the kettle on.

"Hey!"

"I'm fine," I insist through gritted teeth, back turned, but I'm not good at this, I feel angrier at myself for being a shit than I am at her, or McNulty, or any other nameless faces that have maddened me lately. 

"You're not," she repeats more adamantly, and a hand pulls me back round to her eye line. What she sees must be a pitiful sight, because her face visibly softens. She nods towards the couch, and I shake my head, but she motions again insistently, and I drop down onto it, her following and lying on my chest, waiting for me to open up.

 "How's Eric then?" I ask, changing the conversation and begging for some good news.

She looks at me disbelievingly, like she doesn't know me, and I realise that she's already exposited this information anyway. "Umm, like I said, he's going to be a bush pilot, he's good. What's up?" her voice takes on a light tone, but she fixes me with worried eyes, concern that I probably don't deserve, and I decide to take a deep breath and just tell her.

"McNulty's gone. Left." She's silent, not saying anything, just continuing to look confused until I elaborate for her. "He was scammin-" I correct myself. "He _did_ scam me. Took the money and…cleared up. He was only ever there a few weeks." 

"You sure?" she asks, but there's no doubt in her eyes. 

I just nod sadly, and shrug, relaying the story in the minimum amount of detail, while she listens. "I can stop the cheque," I offer in a falsely positive tone coupled with a short smile, and return to stroking her hair quietly, watching the shadows that flicker across the ceiling.

"But it's not about that," she replies rhetorically, obviously having learned a little more about reading my mind. She looks up at me, angling my jaw so I'm facing her. "Is it?"

"No," I concede quietly, with a shake of my head. I feel little arms reaching around me just a little tighter than they were before, and a tiny kiss dropletting on my cheek, but she still doesn't say anything, just fills the pauses with little breaths, and before I know it, I'm asleep.

~ * ~ * ~

My eyes blink open to find us still lying there, the flashing red lights on the clock telling me it's 2:30AM, I don't want to believe it, I want to fall back to sleep, but fate doesn't seem to wish it that way. I want to move, but I can't; her sleeping form is precariously rested on my chest, and one wrong movement could wake her up, which I'm loathed to do. Instead I have to gaze longingly at the glass resting by the sink, my mouth becoming increasingly restless in its need for water, and try to alleviate sore muscles without disrupting her.

It doesn't work. She stirs next to me, forehead rubbing into my chest, and lifts herself up on her elbows, blinking and glancing around. "Time is it?" she yawns, rubbing one eye with her palm.

"Almost three."

She rises, and offers me her hand; I follow her up slowly. "Coming to bed?" she asks softly, smiling through tired eyes and running a finger up and down the centre of my palm.

I nod, looking down at her. She's beautiful. "In a minute."

"'K." Balancing a finger under my chin, she rises up to touch a soft kiss to my lips, and lets it linger there a moment, not moving. "Don't stay up too long," she adds on her way to the bedroom, pausing at the doorframe to watch me, a helpless sort of worry rested on her brow, and then she's gone, and the apartment is still, but for a muffled crumpling of bed sheets and a soft whirring from the VCR clock as the time changes.

I collect the glass of water I was longing for, but find I don't particularly want it after all, and instead stand in the middle of the room, feeling a little lost. What now?

Charity work is out of the running. 

I can't explain this feeling, this emptiness; I don't know whether I want to. I just know that I knew him a few short days, a week or two, yet somehow it feels like my sense of purpose has gone.

I rest my palms on the table behind me, and lean back on them, staring from the clock to the window, observing the still Chicago night, dark and empty, streets long abandoned for the warmth and security of silent houses, and then back to the clock again.

3:01 AM. This is going to be a long night.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**A/N**: Reviews, particularly constructive ones, are loved. 


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